Molten Steel
by Zute
Summary: I'm no soldier. I can only explain this by saying that when I emerged into the light and saw what the world was, my heart longed for order. The Brotherhood of Steel was the only order I found.
1. Article 1: General Provisions 8011

_Notes:_ This contains spoilers for Fallout 4, Brotherhood of Steel faction. In particular, Danse's quest. It doesn't go beyond that. I must also disclose that this story is going to get a bit, hmmm, shall we say… picante? The first chapter is safe for delicate eyes though.

 _~o~o~o~_

I'm no soldier. I can only explain this by saying that when I emerged into the light and saw what the world was, my heart longed for order. Nothing was untouched by the bomb or time. There was nothing left of the pristine world I left. No straight lines, no clean corners, no fresh paint, nothing unbroken, unrusted, untainted, untouched… The world was mangled and it was my people, my generation, that were responsible.

So when I stumbled on the Brotherhood of Steel I found something that actually worked and had a goal. They wanted what I wanted, order restored, a government established, and people to feel safe once again. They'd already started on that project, one I couldn't even begin to fathom how to undertake. I felt like I could contribute to putting it all back to where it was before the people of my era started dropping bombs.

Paladin Danse's orders were given without hesitation or question so I followed him. This was his world, not mine, so of course he knew better than I how to fix it. I didn't really like him. He spoke without much inflection in his voice. He was soldier to the core and he certainly never let me see anything else. But those were the early days and I wouldn't have appreciated his sympathy or kindness then if he had any. I was still a walking wound, oozing sorrow and shock. I dreamed of Shaun and Mark constantly and woke every morning to re-live my loss over and over.

But eventually the pain faded and I started looking for Danse's humanity a little harder. I found it first in his eyes. There was softness there, even as he gave orders and sounded every bit the career soldier. And then I found humor. One day as we were squidging our way across a muddy streambed, my Geiger counter clicked slowly but relentlessly. It reminded me that I was going to be losing a lot of hair and puking my guts out if I didn't find something to neutralize the radiation. Then he comes out and says, "Call me old fashioned, but there's nothing like being boots on the ground." I laughed so hard I dropped my shotgun into the muck and nearly landed on top of it. (I decided _not_ to retrieve the shotgun. I had a good rifle with me.)

After that, it seemed like he went out of his way to make me laugh, always delivering his lines with his best deadpan soldier voice. And the softness in his eyes became little lines gathering at the corners, and from time to time a smile actually touched his mouth.

And mine too. The dreams faded and I adjusted to this broken world. It made me appreciate the order and relatively smooth functioning of the Brotherhood. Slowly my search for Danse's humanity turned into something else. I found myself craving his voice and the way it seemed to reverberate through my bones and spark all manner of chaos in my mind and body. Maybe it was something I ate or drank. I got myself thoroughly checked out by the Sanctuary doctor. It wasn't radiation poisoning or some weird parasite causing my symptoms.

I'd goddamned fallen in love.

 _~o~o~o~_

Note: Thanks for reading. Next chapters probably not for those with delicate sensibilities. Please review!


	2. 8033 Jurisdiction to try certain persons

_Note: Not much if anything is a spoiler here, if you're met Maxson._

Maxson watched Danse and the woman cross the command deck toward him. She looked, well, unlikely. Unlikely indeed, especially next to Danse. He was a metallic hulk in his power armor and she, compared to him, was barely connected to the floor through her feet. Yet, if Danse hadn't lost his mind, she was a born killer. Purged the College Square of ferals without any help and came back without a scratch. Sharpshooter. Liked to work under the cover of darkness.

Damn useful, actually. They'd had stealth operatives before, but that resource wasn't easy to find and they had no one to train new ones.

"Paladin." Maxson received the commander's salute with a nod. "Your recruit?"

"Deanna Lennox, Elder. Vault dweller until recently. She's been invaluable to us."

He nodded and silently appraised the woman. Thirty perhaps? Astoundingly clean for surface dweller. Not a single rip or tear in her vault suit. Her skin glowed. No, not the unhealthy glow of a ghoul, but a different sort of radiation, as of health, that no one who'd spent decades on the surface had. Not even babies these days were as untainted as this creature. Ginger hair, freckles, green eyes, an unusual assemblage of features but average-looking really. No attribute would have stood out on its own, but her untainted, smooth skin made her a rarity. Pre-war she'd have been attractive, but by today's standards, she was a beauty. This was the stealth operative Danse had brought him? It just seemed incredibly unlikely. Maybe Danse was smitten.

"Danse, report back in an hour. I'd like to talk to our recruit."

"Of course, Elder." A smart salute and his commander left him on the bridge with the woman, Deanna.

He turned away from her and looked out the window of the Prydwen. "You know who we are and what we do, recruit?"

"Of course. Danse has told me."

"And why do you want to be a part of this?" He turned around to watch her as she answered. Her smooth brow furrowed slightly.

"You're trying to undo all… that." She pointed out the window of the Prydwen at the Commonwealth below. "You're trying to restore what I knew. I have to help you. It's my…"

She struggled a moment and pain crossed her face. But then she bit it back and gave him an answer, but it wasn't the true one. "I know what was lost. I want to help."

He smiled. _Liar._ Then he took a step closer, and another. She took one backwards and looked up at him. There was surprise plainly written on her face. He grasped her wrist to prevent her from taking another step back. He could see his effect on her. Pure intimidation. A useful tactic for extracting the truth.

"Try for the truth this time. Why are you here? Why do you want to help us?" His voice was low and threatening. Clearly it was working on this soft vault dweller. Her eyes flew open and she looked frightened.

"It's just that…"

"Go on," he snarled.

"It's our fault the world is like this." Her voice was soft and trailed off in something that almost sounded like a sob. "We were complacent. We could've objected to the wars, the hostilities. No one wanted to look weak. No one wanted diplomacy! We were America… Land of the free, home of the brave. Kiss our butts! We've got freedom, shiny cars, robotic slaves and the best damn refrigerators on the planet. So who gives a frig about wars fought thousands of miles away by people we don't even know?"

That was unexpected. The history he'd learned had cast the Chinese as the villains. They fired the first nuke. America had responded appropriately by launching her own nukes, then Russian and responded. Mutually assured destruction had been a great deterrent until it hadn't been. He dropped her wrist and she rubbed it. Her answer was honest.

"I don't negotiate either. Or compromise," he said. "If something is in the way, the Brotherhood crushes it. And you, as a member, are expected to follow orders. Are we clear on that?"

She didn't focus on his face, but beyond it, looking out over the ruins of the Commonwealth. She may have been externally pure and unsullied by this world, but it had taken its toll on her emotionally. "Yes," she whispered, barely audibly.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear that recruit," he said, though he had. Her response was wholly inadequate.

"Yes," she said louder.

"Yes what?" He held her eyes with his own, his face a dark scowl. If she wanted to be with them, she needed to act it.

"Yes, sir!"

Her voice louder and she stiffened to a rigid, military bearing. Much better. "Very well, Knight Lennox. Report to Proctor Ingram and get your power armor."

He turned on his heel, dismissing her from his presence, if not his thoughts. Her light tread on the deck of the Prydwen faded as he pondered. A wild card. An interesting one. Employing her to infiltrate, assassinate, or sabotage would be the logical step. She wasn't going to be leading any raids. That would be a misuse of this asset. Danse needed to understand that, if he didn't already.

Hours later, as he settled into his room, smoking a cigar and nursing a snifter of decent whiskey, his thoughts returned to her. This time though he wasn't thinking about how best to deploy her, but about whether that creamy skin extended below her neck and into that blue vault suit.

 _~o~o~o~_

 _Notes: As usual, I'm rarely limited to the storyline as it exists in the game. I am off on my own exploration of these characters._


	3. Article II Apprehension and Restraint

_**Danse**_

She was never so beautiful as when she was crouched down on one knee with one eye closed, the other peering down her scope, ginger eyebrow arching in concentration. Her unruly red hair was neatly tucked under her helmet, but for a strand or two caressing her neck. And then she'd pull the trigger and something would die. Well, usually. Sometimes it took a finishing shot or two from him.

Only this time it wasn't quite so clean and the feral charged. She wasn't going to reload in time. He growled back at the slavering creature and charged, using the butt of his weapon to bash in its flimsy skull. "Die!" He cursed at the creature and it somehow kept its feet and leapt at her, completely ignoring him. She was just raising her rifle again to shoot when the momentum of its leap carried her back and she sprawled out underneath the disgusting wreck of humanity.

"Danse!" she screamed.

He could imagine the ghoul sinking its fangs into her neck, its filthy claws ripping through vault suit and flesh to disembowel her. The though made him feel like he'd taken a double dose of psycho jet. What happened next he couldn't even recall but judging from the red smears all over his power armor, he'd handled it personally. Intimately, so to speak.

Lucy was on her feet staring at him and bits of ghoul were everywhere.

"Are you all right?" He reached out to smooth back her hair, the helmet was gone now, but he withdrew his hand when he saw the gore dripping from it.

"I… I'm fine." There was only a little tremor in her voice. "You?"

"Well, a bit messy, but fine here too." He wasn't fine. That had been too damn close, but his voice gave away none of his fear. "I think that was the last one. We could head back. Good work, Knight."

"Should we wait for dawn?" she asked. "There were some beds inside that didn't look too bad and we've got water. We could get cleaned up."

"Not a bad idea. My armor…" He sighed and shook his head. "God, I hate ghouls."

She nodded and then he saw her struggling to contain some emotion he couldn't identify.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's just that…" Finally a snort escaped her. "You look like you've fallen into a jar of strawberry jam." She couldn't contain it any longer and began to giggle.

"It sure doesn't smell like strawberry jam," he said. How could she find humor in almost dying? It didn't seem like hysteria. He didn't see what was so damn funny, but her amusement finally found his own funny bone and he smiled. Their eyes met and her laughter quieted, but she didn't look away.

"Let's go." He broke the awkward silence and led her back into the apartment house. "Good place to bivouac for the night."

 _ **Elder Maxson**_

The next time he saw her he wondered why her tread didn't leave dents in the deck of the Prydwen.

"I can't believe you let that Kells send me on a mission to slaughter ghouls with a child!" She hacked at the air with her hands, punctuating angrily. "A child!"

He leaned back in his chair a took a calming sip of brandy then casually drew on his cigar. "A scribe, Knight," he said calmly.

"A child! He couldn't have been older than ten."

Maxson sighed and set his drink down. "Calm yourself." He couldn't remember the last time anyone spoke to him with such disrespect. Still, she was a sight to behold. A rad-storm personified. That hair was gloriously escaping the bounds of her pony-tail and irradiating her pale skin within its red nimbus.

"You put a child in direct danger and you want me to calm myself?" She glared at him, and now her hands went to her hips. Shapely under that vault suit, he duly noted.

"Sit down there and take a moment. We'll discuss it, but not like this." He gestured to a chair at the small dining room table in his quarters. Yes, she'd managed to barge into his quarters when he was planning to have a few moments to relax and have his dinner. His first impulse had been to call for a guard to throw her in the brig, but it just took one angry flash of her eyes and his plans changed entirely. She sat, but her posture was rigid and angry.

He rose and left her sitting for a moment while he found his steward and asked for another setting at dinner.

"We'll discuss this over dinner. I find reasoning with people is easier if they're not hungry."

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes flashed again. "Reasoning? You think I'm being unreasonable?" Her voice went up in pitch the angrier she got.

"Seriously, soldier, you're either going to calm down and have dinner or you're going to the brig. Now tell me which it is." He locked eyes with her, challenging her to continue her tirade. As much as he wanted her company for dinner, the provocation couldn't stand unresolved. He hoped she'd understand.

There was a tense moment and then she drew a deep, shaky breath and looked down. "I apologize, Elder. I just couldn't believe it."

He said nothing but nodded, accepting her apology. As he walked to the little dining table in his quarters he paused at a side table and poured two glasses of bourbon. Picking them up, he handed her one and seated himself at the other end of the table.

She took the bourbon, sniffed it, and then set it aside. "Thanks." Clearly she wasn't going to drink it.

"Not up to your pre-war standards?" he asked, feeling a bit miffed.

"Oh, it isn't that. I just don't really drink."

He couldn't help himself, he chuckled. "Missy, you joined the wrong organization if that's the case. Surely you've seen evidence that imbibing in spirits is one of the favorite pastimes of the crew."

She nodded and finally cracked a smile. "I guess so. There are booze bottles on just about every table on the Prydwen."

He picked up her glass and handed it to her. "Come now. This is the Brotherhood of Steel. Consider it a right of passage."

She stared into its amber depths for a moment and then glanced back at him, one eyebrow cocked.

"Down the hatch, soldier. Make me proud."

"If you think this is going to get me off topic…"

"I promise we'll have that discussion after dinner, Deanna."

She grimaced once at him and then lifted the glass to her mouth and slugged it down in a series off quick painful gulps. Her brow twisted and eyes squinted shut. She slammed the glass down on the table and wiped her lips on her sleeve and then coughed and sputtered. "It burns!"

"Well, of course it does if you drink it like that." He couldn't suppress a half smile and picked up his own glass and sipped it.

"At least in my era we had the sense to dilute the stuff with ice and cola," she muttered.

"Not many ice makers around any longer."

"Or even working refrigerators," she said. She leaned back in her chair and sighed heavily, seeming to sink a bit. The alcohol was working on her already.

The steward knocked and Deanna struggled to straighten up a little.

"Come in," Maxson said.

The steward entered and set a tray on the desk, then put two plates of steaming food on the table. He poured two glasses of purified water into glasses and set them on the table. A basket of bread was set in the middle of the table along with a bowl of brahmin butter.

Maxson watched Deanna's eyes grow large at the sight of the food. He picked up his own fork and lifted a tender young carrot, dripping with butter, perfectly caramelized, to his mouth and watched her watch him eat it. "Delicious. Go on. Don't stand on formality."

She dove into her food and seemed to inhale it, only pausing to make noises of appreciation. "Damn, this is good."

He smiled watching her eat ravenously. Nothing like a few drinks and a good meal to take the edge off a temper.

It worked beautifully. She ate like a young half-starved wolf and then slumped back into her chair with a contented sigh when her plate was clean. Her eyes were slightly glazed and cheeks pinked from the alcohol. She watched him eating. He was taking his sweet time, enjoying the scrutiny and speculating what lay behind her curious musings.

"Deathclaw." He finally said when her eyes lingered on his scar. "Got careless."

She nodded and looked away, examining his quarters instead of him. He finally finished his dinner and pushed the plate away.

"May I speak?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. He rose and retrieved the bottle of bourbon and poured more into her glass and topped his off.

"The children…" she began.

"Right, you feel they're too young. Too much blood, violence, danger, etc." He waved his hand dismissively.

She nodded and leaned forward. "It's reprehensible! What're you doing to their young developing brains?"

He smiled with half his mouth, but his eyes narrowed. "I'm teaching them to live in the world we inherited."

Her mouth tightened and she almost flinched as if she'd been physically stung. Of course he knew how she would hear these words. It was her fault, the fault of her people that the world was the way it was. And yes, it was. He'd never really thought about it all that much until she'd shown up and admitted she felt culpable. Not that she'd caused it herself, but she felt perhaps if her people hadn't been so complacent and accepting of what had been happening that lead up to the war, the nukes wouldn't have been dropped.

"They're too… they're too damn young!" she protested. "Can't you wait until they're fifteen, or sixteen? They don't need to follow someone like me into a building and watching me slaughter ghouls."

"At this age they can build the mental defenses against the violence. We're training them to become the warriors this world needs," he said.

She sagged back into her chair and took another long drink of bourbon. This time she didn't sputter. "It doesn't burn now," she commented.

"Anesthetic. It numbs your throat. Your brain too, when it gets to be too much."

She closed her eyes and sighed. It was an admission of defeat. "I supposed that is why you all drink so much? So much ugliness in this world."

He gazed at her a moment. _Not entirely,_ he thought. "Come with me." He stood up and tucked a cigar into a pocket and picked up his drink.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Where?"

"Fore deck. I need to show you something." Pointing at her drink he said, "Bring it."

She rose and picked up the drink and followed him out. Their steps clanged against the metal deck of the airship. He shouldn't, of course, but instinctually he opened doors and let her precede him. She nearly tripped over the raised bottoms of the door, obviously tipsy now. There wasn't much of her natural grace remaining.

"Careful now," he said as they walked to the front of the airship.

She caught her breath and murmured something when she saw what he wanted her to see. There was a glorious sunset of orange, and neon pink darkening into the blue sky.

"There you go, Deanna. Proof it isn't all ugliness. Not by a long shot." He raised his glass in a toast. "To the beauty remaining in the world."

She reluctantly tore her eyes from the splendor and turned to meet his toast with her own glass. There was something warm, very warm, in her eyes. "May we find it wherever it is," she added. She didn't take her eyes from his as she drank and he kept his gaze steady. When she finished he took her glass and his and threw them overboard.

"I hope it hits a mutant," she said.

"Or a deathclaw."

She laughed and he almost smiled, but then he took a step closer to her, towering over her and gazing into her eyes. There was a moment where she looked uncertain, then something changed and she stepped toward him, her hands reaching for him just as his reached for her. They came together hard, lips and teeth and grasping hands. He backed her into the wall, careful that they were out of view of anyone.

The moment lengthened and a finally she pulled away, gulping air as if she were drowning.

"Elder Maxson…"

"Arthur. Call me Arthur," he said. His voice was hoarse with want. At the moment, he couldn't think of anything he'd ever wanted more than her.

"Arthur…"

"I shouldn't have done that, Deanna. I know you've recently lost your husband." Despite his words, he couldn't let go of her just yet. His hand still held her upper arm, the other still smoothed down her pony tail. God, he loved saying her name.

"No. I…"

"Tell me to stop, and I will," he said.

"Take me to bed," she whispered hoarsely. She turned her pale face up to his; the sweet sprinkling of freckles just barely visible in the fading light. "Now."

The sun sunk below the horizon. He wrapped an arm around the Deanna and walked her back into the airship. His soldiers were well trained and seemed to dissolve out of sight. Oh God, there would be talk, but he knew he'd never hear a word of it. He just hoped she didn't.

 _ **Notes:** __Next chapter we check in with Deanna! Thanks for the reviews!_


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